Shayat was still so much herself. It had been two years since I had seen her last, and then I had known her only while she prepared herself to live the life she now led. From across the market she gave me that utterly familiar look of condescending amusement. She said something to a tall man next to her and made her way towards us. She walked with such effortless certainty, gently nudging people out of her way like she owned the entire market district. I tried and failed to gather my bearings. Sorcha pestered me with questions, but I was laughing too hard to give him any answers. By the time she reached me my ribs ached, and my face was covered in tears. I stood braced against Sorcha, my sense of balance long lost.

Shayat stood in front of me, smirking, arms crossed. “Hello, professor.”

I managed, finally, to get control of myself. I wiped my face, grinning so wide it hurt. I had missed her. I hadn’t known until she appeared in front of me that I had, or how much. “You cut your hair,” I said.

“You stopped cutting yours,” she said. “You look ridiculous.”

I laughed again and rubbed my jaw to relieve some of the soreness from having laughed so much already. Sorcha ran a hand through my hair. Shayat’s eyebrows raised just the slightest bit. I felt in her a spark of curiosity. “It suits him,” Sorcha said. He spoke Semadran with a pronounced City flair.

Shayat pointed at him. “Who is this?”

“Sorcha. This is Sorcha,” I said. “He is my…we are…”

Sorcha held out his hand. “We’re brotherly.”

“You’re brothers?” she asked.

“No,” Sorcha said. “We’re brotherly. Who are you?”

“This is Shayat Bachel’Parvi,” I said. “I taught her Modern Athenorkos and Coastal Lothic back in Rabatha. Shayat! Shayat, what are you doing here?”

“Caravanning,” she said. “I come through here every six months or so.” She grinned; pride poured out of her. “I have the lead mercantile license. I have an all-elvish caravan.”

“Really?”

“First one in Rabatha. You have no idea the hoops they made me jump through to get it.”

“Shayat, that’s…how did you manage that?”

“Compromises,” she said. “Any Qin official can confiscate up to one-eighth of my goods, no questions asked, as a tariff.”

“They’ll take your goods one eighth at a time,” I said.

“They haven’t yet. They won’t. I’m smarter than they are. My route has one single border check. One. I lose an eighth there, and that’s it. I sell to the ghetto out of Papa’s shop. The Qin in the Rabathan markets never even see the goods.”

“Speaking of routes,” Sorcha said, “we’re looking for one.”

Shayat looked at me, and laughter again bubbled up my throat. I turned a deep red.